


The White Knight Retires

by RubraSaetaFictor



Series: The Morals of Chess [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Food, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 08:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12032376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor/pseuds/RubraSaetaFictor
Summary: Lestrade's retired from the force, what to do now?





	The White Knight Retires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ijustsigneduptofollow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustsigneduptofollow/gifts).



> This story concept was originally suggested by ijust. I'm not sure if you're still reading out there, but credit where credit is due.

Greg Lestrade stood behind his desk at New Scotland Yard, his hands resting on the raw cardboard edges of a recently assembled banker’s box. The remaining papers were stacked neatly, though perhaps not dealt with at completely as his successor would appreciate, but the main perk of retirement was that it was officially not his problem anymore.

He’d taken care of all the necessities around the office, met with HR, gave a few tips to the colleagues who’d have to manage Sherlock without him.

_Though not too many tips,_ he thought with a grin, as again, not his problem anymore.

He’d suffered through the retirement party, having learnt that Sally had picked up his habit of filming embarrassing moments on your mobile. All that was left was to grab the last bits and bobs of personal stuff out of his desk and he’d be on his way: Greg Lestrade, retired.

He slid open the right-hand drawer and tossed the stack of receipts sitting on top into the bin and then put an old watch, some frequent customer cards and unread copy of _Who Moved My Cheese?_ into the box, before taking the book and putting it back in the drawer. He continued removing things from the drawers and dispensing them with efficiency: empty pot from a plant he killed - into the box; dried up pens – the bin; old box of cigarettes with two left – box; broken calculator -  bin. In the last drawer, stuck partly beneath the rails and a bit crushed, Lestrade pulled up a thick manila envelope, his name written in elegant script.

Lestrade’s brow furrowed for a moment, before opening the flap, a brief view of the contents all the reminder he needed. Lestrade looked at the envelope in his hand, as if weighing it, and tucked it under his arm. He grabbed the box, looked at the lean contents inside and placed it in the bin, the corners sticking wildly out.

He walked out the door and turned off the light.

“You didn’t booby-trap it, did you?” A voice asked from the shadows.

“If it happens, it certainly wasn’t me.” Lestrade smiled at Sally. “It’s all yours, Chief Inspector. Take good care of them all for me, will you?”

“Of course. Still no plans for what you’d like to do?”

Lestrade shook his hand. “Just going to enjoy the quiet for bit, I suppose.” He looked down at the envelope under his arm. “Maybe pick up a new hobby.”

“Enjoy yourself, you’ve certainly earned it.”

“I will.” Lestrade looked around the office. “Walk me out?”

Sally nodded and they walked quietly past the night shift officers at their desks out into the night.

 

* * *

 

 Lestrade sat on his sofa in a ratty tee, sweatpants, and trainers. He’d meant to go for a run, but there was football on.

_Yes, it was a replay of a game he’d already seen, but there was a goal near the end of the second half that was worth watching again._ Lestrade looked up at the clock on his Blu-ray player. _Even if it was another 52 minutes away._

Lestrade looked at the coffee table in front of him – three empty bottles of beer, one unopened beer, a cheap bottle opener, a demolished bag of crisps, and a several days of unread mail and newspapers. And here it was only 11:15 AM.

Three weeks of retirement and he’d already gone to the dogs.

He lifted up the stack of papers and figured he’d give that a try, at least until the second half started, when the copy of _Latin for Dummies_ he’d purchased and quickly forgotten about caught his eye.

He shoved the papers to the side. _Better that than a front-page article on the royal’s first day of school, right?_

He cracked the book open to page 11.  “Chapter 1 – English in a Toga: Latin Derivatives.” 

Lestrade reached forward and grabbed the unopened bottle and his opener and cracked it open.

“Ta,” Lestrade nodded to the book and settled in.

He’d managed to make it all the way down Table 1-1 to _pater_ , when his cell rang.

“Oh, thank god.”

Lestrade blinked at the name on the caller ID, and then raised it dutifully to his ear.

“Mycroft?”

“Good morning, Inspector.”

“You know I’m retired, right?”

“Yes, my brother did mention something about that.” Mycroft paused, a rare moment of trying to find appropriate words. “How is that going?”

“Well, it’s the dream innit? No responsibilities and all the time in the world to do whatever I want.”

“That bad then?”

“It’s awful. I’m bored out of my bloody mind,” Lestrade confessed. “Look, I know I’ve got no jurisdiction anymore, but if you’d got a gig appropriate for someone non-official, I’m your man. It’s three weeks in, and I’m going batty. Heck, I’d do it for free.”

“Funny you should mention that. There is something I had in mind, but it would be imprudent to disclose the details over the phone.  Meet me this Thursday, at Demeter’s in Midhurst – 1 PM.”

“Aren’t you going to ask if I’m available then?”

A chuckle came across the line. “We both know you are.”

“See you Thursday, then.” Lestrade sighed to the now disconnected line.

  

* * *

 

 As he wandered down the cobblestone footway in Midhurst centre, he began to worry that he had heard Mycroft wrong and was in the terribly wrong place. Which would be awful, not least because he’d driven an hour and half from London to get there, but even moreso because he’d spent the last three days wondering what kind of job Mycroft could possibly have in mind for him that would require meeting out in the country.

His curiosity was even more piqued when he could find no mention of Demeter’s online, but he figured Midhurst was small enough he could ask around.

After several failed attempts with locals upon his entry to town, Lestrade lucked out with a pair of older chaps smoking on a public bench, who confirmed with each other that it was the new place and they’d never been, but it was in a low white brick building with a little light blue door – keep going and you can’t miss it.

And so, Lestrade found himself in front of said building, a two-story number with a medical supply store in one first-floor shop and small café in the other. The sign, newly hung, he’d guessed from the lack of bird shit on it, said Demeter’s and there was a pair of small bistro tables out front and a two-tiered fountain by the front door.

On instinct, Lestrade grabbed a coin from his pocket to toss in the fountain as he passed through the door, but was stopped by a small placard which read “No Coins – May Disturb Fish.”   He peered into the lower basin and, sure enough, a half-dozen small goldfish were milling about. He pocked the coin and went through the door, a small bell ringing.

The place was empty except for a pensioner eating lunch near the front window and a scraggly looking 20-something behind the counter, hanging glasses on a brass rail above his head. There was maybe a dozen tables, small round things with white tablecloths in the room. The place sat 25, 30 tops. It was quaintly elegant, in a way you wouldn’t expect from restaurant next door to a place that sold catheters and bedpans.

Lestrade smiled. _Perfect place to discuss a secret mission._ His smile, however, faded when he realized that there was no Mycroft present. He looked at his watch – 1:05. Surely Mycroft hadn’t come and gone because he was five minutes late.

“Anywhere you’d like.”

“Huh?” Lestrade asked, looking up from his watch.

“You can sit anywhere you’d like,” came the scraggly voice from behind the counter.

“Oh. Uh-“ Lestrade looked around, hesitating. “I’m not sure I’m staying.”

“Ain’t it always the case?” the young man asked. “Everybody thinks they want to try something new, but really want someone else to try it first. Weeks we’ve been open and it’s always like this. The owner says he don’t want any reviews, but I think it’d help.”

“Nah –“ Lestrade shrugged, feeling a mite guilty, “I’m just supposed to meet someone and they’re not here.” He looked out the window and seeing no one making their way down the street, decided to hell with it. He was hungry and if Mycroft was gone, he might as well get lunch. He pulled out a bentwood chair from a table in the centre of the room and sat down.  “You gotta menu?”

“You made it, Inspector,” a decidedly non-scraggly voice said from the rear of the café.

“You’re here.”

“Yes, I always make a point of washing my hands before I eat.”  Mycroft pulled out the chair opposite Lestrade and sat down.  The waiter started over to hand Lestrade a list of specials, but Mycroft waved him away. “No need. I already ordered for you.”

Lestrade pulled a face.

“I have an excellent memory, Inspector, and had over a month to become acquainted with your dining preferences once upon a time. Do you trust me?”

Lestrade conceded, “When it comes to food, sure.”

“Then save room for dessert.”

Lestrade smiled as the waiter returned with two glasses of water, one with lemon, and pint of red ale. “Always.”

 

* * *

 

Lestrade pushed his plate toward the centre of the table, a small pool of juices and a single bite of meat the only remnant of the beef wellington that once sat there.  “That was the best bit of beef I’ve had. You’d think people would be knocking down the door to eat here.”

“Some things are best kept secret, aren’t they?” Mycroft signalled to the waiter, who came to collect their plates.

“Speaking of secrets, what’s this job you dragged me all the way out here to tell me about?”

“You liked the food then, Inspector?”

“Yeah, of course. I can’t wait to see what’s for dessert.” Lestrade grabbed the last bite of beef with his fingers before the waiter could take it away. “And I told you, I’m retired, can’t call me Inspector anymore.”

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded, “old habits die hard.” He paused, as if trying out the next word in his mind. “Gregory.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

It was Mycroft’s turn to concede. “Greg.”

“Better. So?”

The waiter came over and placed a slice of chocolate cake in front of Lestrade. To call it a slice was an understatement. It was, in fact, a six-layer wall of chocolate sponge dripping with salted caramel and covered in a thick coat of dark chocolate frosting. Lestrade laughed as waiter placed a tiny silver teapot and white teacup on a saucer in front of Mycroft.

“Still no cake for you, then?”

“Sadly, no,” Mycroft said, as he placed his teabag into the pot of steaming water. “So, the job.”

“Cake can wait,” Lestrade said, his eyes looking mournfully as he slid the tower of chocolate to the side.

“Please, Greg,” the name still seeming to stick in Mycroft’s throat, “ _business_ can wait a few more minutes. Eat your cake.”

Needed no further encouragement, Lestrade tucked in. “Christ, this is good,” he mumbled his mouth full of cake. Lestrade’s fork aimed for another bite, but then stopped mid-air. “It’s too good.”

“What’s that?” Mycroft asked, sounding a tad bemused. “How can cake be too good?”

Lestrade put down his fork. “You made this cake.” And then, as if a light went off. “And the beef. This is _your_ restaurant. The Greek name! And the goldfish! I should have known! I’m an idiot.”

“Be kind to yourself. You got there soon enough.” Mycroft poured himself his tea.

 “When did you have time to open a restaurant?” Lestrade asked, a bit thrown by his own deduction.

“I’ve been cutting back my hours for weeks now. At the end of the month, I, too, shall be fully retired, and as I have no desire to laze about for the remainder of my days, _this,_ ” Mycroft said, nodding his head at their surroundings, “is my retirement plan.”

“There’s no job then?” Lestrade asked, sadly.

“There most certainly is.”

A thought went off in Lestrade’s mind. “You want me to replace you?”

“Goodness, no.” Mycroft set down his teacup. “The job is here. I want to make good food for people to enjoy, but as you can see – “ Mycroft indicated the empty tables surrounding them “- there is more to running a restaurant than good food.”

“I don’t know anything about a running a restaurant and you certainly know more about business than me.”

“True, but I trust you and you have a quality valued in the front of house in which I am sorely lacking.”

“And what is that?”

“Charm.”

“Charm?” Lestrade nearly choked on his cake.

“Pleasantness, being personable. Call it what you will, but you seem to get along with people and they seem to get along with you. I’d like you to be the face of Demeter’s. You provide a welcoming atmosphere and I take care of the business and culinary says.”

Lestrade grinned. “So you’re asking me to a be pretty face?”

“I’m asking you to project warmth and bring in customers.”

“You need me to be nice for you?” Lestrade was almost laughing now.

“Precisely.”

Lestrade put down his fork, his face deadly serious. “I know on the phone I said I’d work for free, but nice doesn’t come cheap. Besides, this is a helluva commute.”

“Should you accept, I am willing to offer free rent in the flat upstairs, access to any food in the restaurant at cost, and a reasonable stipend.”

“Are you living upstairs, too?”

“Of course not!” exclaimed Mycroft, baffled by the idea. “I purchased a small estate along the river ages ago. I don’t do flats.”

Lestrade leaned back in his car and crossed his arms, his eyes scanning Mycroft, the café and the slice of cake on the table before him. “I do it on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Put a treadmill in the upstairs flat and it’s a deal.”

“Deal.” Mycroft extended his hand across the table, which Lestrade clasped and shook.

 

* * *

 

 A young woman in too-high heels pulled her coat closer against the brisk fall breeze, causing the hem of a red and white polka dot dress to peek out.  “Do you think we can get a table? It’s always so full Friday nights.”

The young man, looking slightly awkward in his ill-fitting button up smiled. “They usually don’t take reservations, but I went in person this morning and made my case direct to the manager. Said I finally got myself a date with the best girl in town and I needed to the take her to the best place.”

She slapped his arm, blushing. “You didn’t!”

“It’s true. Every word.” He pushed the door open for his date, the brass bell jingling pleasantly above  the hum of conversation in the room.

At the sound of the bell, Lestrade turned from where he was handing a pair of plates to the now-slightly less scraggly looking man behind the bar. He walked toward the couple with a grin as they hung their coats on a sturdy iron rack by the door. “Alex! Right on time.”

 He turned to the young woman. “Right this way.” He showed the couple to a table by the front window, with a hand-written _reserved_ card. “Our best table for what I hear is the best girl in town.”

The young woman blushed, looking down at the table for something to do with her hands. “Oh! Where are the menus?”

Lestrade smiled. “No menus here – our chef makes whatever he thinks is best for the day – today’s specials are on the wall.” He gestured to the far wall of the restaurant, which was a large chalkboard with the day’s menu elegantly written in chalk. “It’s a Greek-evening,” he explained. “The chef just got in a large quantity of local honey from here in Sussex Downs and felt in the need to make Baklava and it all spun out from there.”

The less scraggly looking waiter handed Lestrade a pitcher of water, which he poured for the couple. “I’m sure you’ve heard, but at Demeter’s you always save room for dessert.”

 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2012/12/the-ultimate-beef-wellington-recipe.html
> 
> https://www.deliciousmeetshealthy.com/baklava-recipe/
> 
> http://www.marthastewart.com/857647/salted-caramel-six-layer-chocolate-cake


End file.
